A Baker Street Christmas
by starrysummernights
Summary: It's Christmas time on Baker Street! See how John and Sherlock, Greg and Mycroft, celebrate the season with this collection of Christmas-themed 221B's. Including activities both naughty and nice. Johnlock. Mystrade.
1. The Christmas Season

**Welcome to my new writing endeavor! Herein, I'll be writing a 221B for every day of December in celebration of Christmas. I did something similar last year and really felt compelled to do it again this year. I love Christmas! :)**

**I've already got prompts from a few people but I always enjoy getting more- Christmas themed ideas or words beginning with the letter "b" are greatly appreciated. :D**

**Let's deck these halls!**

* * *

There's nothing John likes better than the Christmas season.

_Yes_, it's commercialized and _yes_, it's all about appealing to people's hearts solely for profit. But John can and does overlook all that and fuck you for bringing it up.

Because Christmas? It's magical. It's a wonderful, beautiful time of year.

It's an entire month when children are red-cheeked and laughing. There's write-ups in the paper about good deeds done and strangers helped out by the generosity of others. Christmas lights sparkle in all the store windows and sometimes, if you're lucky, it _snows_.

It reminds John of childhood. The giddiness of school letting out for the holidays. Snowball fights and warm cocoa.

Besides, John has to find Christmas cheer where he can. He lives with The Grinch himself.

Although, that's not entirely true, John thought, watching Sherlock struggle to untangle a length of twinkle lights, frowning in concentration. Sherlock may be Grinch-_like_ at times, but he's not-

"Sod it." Sherlock hissed venomously, flinging down the lights in a strop.

"Come on," John smiled, tossing Sherlock his scarf, "you can help me get a tree."

"I thought we had one."

"We did. You set fire to it last year."

"Oh."

John threw Sherlock a mischievous wink. "If you behave at the shops, I'll give you an early present when we get back."


	2. Picking Out A (Suitable) Tree

**Thank you for the support for this story! I'm overwhelmed.**

**I have head canon that Sherlock is posh enough to want a real tree if there must be one in their flat and detests the fake trees that are so common these days. This ficlet grew from that idea. Enjoy :)**

* * *

Sherlock wasn't earning himself any early presents from John.

"It's fine…if you like the idea of decorating the flat with something so…" Sherlock scornfully gestured at what felt like the fortieth tree John had chosen in the past two hours. They'd visited five different shops and none of them had possessed anything fitting for John's overly-posh boyfriend.

"Ok, you know what, which do _you_ want?"

Sherlock eyed the display of fake evergreens in front of them with a raised, disdainful eyebrow. "You know which I prefer."

John sighed. They had this argument every year. "We can't have a real tree in the flat-"

"Why?"

"_Why_? We'd have to keep it _alive_ for starters, Sherlock. Neither of us have the best record nurturing plant life-"

"It's simple enough to keep a _tree_ alive. It's hardly outside the realm of my understanding."

"And not mine?"

"You know what I meant."

John pursed his lips, debating. "You'd take care of it? _Yourself_?"

"Yes."

"And not experiment on it until _after_ Christmas?"

"Agreed." Sherlock said, much too quickly for John to believe him.

Still…

"Fine."

* * *

Real trees were much heavier than fake ones. John had neglected to mention that.

He also refused to help Sherlock maneuver it inside.

Sherlock stubbornly dragged the exquisitely _alive_ evergreen up the stairs, tripping and falling, hard, on his bum.


	3. Picking Out A (Suitable) Tree, pt 2

John finished hanging mistletoe in the kitchen doorway, glancing over his shoulder at Sherlock as he did, checking to see…

Yup. S_till_ pouting.

Sherlock had been sulking ever since he'd lugged their tree up the stairs by himself. John thought it was his dignity that was injured from the strain, not his body. Besides, it'd been undeniably funny the second time Sherlock had fallen, letting out a surprised, high-pitched "_Oh_!" as he landed on his arse.

John grinned at the memory, careful not to let Sherlock see.

"Did you hurt yourself carrying the tree, love?" He asked, strolling to where Sherlock was splayed on the sofa.

Sherlock snorted and crossed his arms tighter. "What do you care? It's _your_ fault if I did."

"I told you if you chose a real tree-"

"Yes, I remember the agreement, John!" Sherlock snapped, avoiding eye contact.

John was unfazed. "Just to be safe…I should probably inspect the injured area. Make sure you're ok."

_That_ got Sherlock's attention.

His eyes focused from the middle distance he'd been stoically staring into and flicked suspiciously to John, who smiled suggestively. John watched as Sherlock flushed, a coy pink tinge working its way onto his cheeks.

"Check…?"

"For injury." John clarified. "Better to be safe about these things."

"You…may be right, John." Sherlock replied, licking his lips beguilingly.

* * *

**This "b" word came from Johnsarmylady (AMAZING writer, go and read her stuff right now) who said "beguiled" and I took a liberty. Thank you, dear! :)  
**


	4. Finesse

**Warning: smut, of the 221B variety.  
**

* * *

It takes a certain finesse to undo a zip with one's teeth.

John Hamish Watson has _all sorts_ of finesse.

Which is how he had Sherlock naked in a minute flat, spread beneath him on their bed, gently scraping his teeth along one pale buttock. Sherlock moaned appreciatively, languidly rolling his hips against the mattress, pressing his cock against the sheets, as John mouthed at his arse, ostensibly checking for injuries.

John pressed a kiss to one perfect globe then, unable to stop himself, gave said globe a lingering lick.

"Mmm…looks ok but…I may need to look…_closer_." John rubbed the delectable arse beneath him admiringly.

"Yes, John." Sherlock choked in agreement- then tensed at the first, bold lick to his arse, before melting against the bed as John's tongue squirmed and licked between his cheeks.

It progressed quickly from there.

It was flattering, really. Sherlock always went _wild_ when John did this, rutting himself desperately against the mattress and moaning as if he were dying.

John loved it.

He was rewarded a few minutes later as Sherlock, gripping the sheets tightly, gasped, his arse flexing rhythmically around John's tongue as he came.

John straightened and, still rubbing that magnificent arse, frantically tugged at his cock, cursing and gasping as he too came before slumping down and snuggling closer to his beloved.

* * *

**Thanks go to Mugglemom08 for prompting me with the word "beloved." I rewrote this just to include her word because she always talks to me about delightfully naughty things and this chapter just...fit. :)**


	5. Dreading The Holidays

**Thanks so much for the support for this story! I'm seriously flattered. Please take the time and leave a review :) I live on them.**

**This chapter has angst. Christmas isn't the best time of year for those with broken homes.**

* * *

Greg Lestrade wasn't much one for Christmas anymore.

He'd used to be all about it, back when he'd still thought everything was wonderful in his marriage, when his kids had been younger and still hero-worshipping their dad.

He'd enjoyed dressing up as Santa every year, letting his excitedly squealing girls see glimpses of him as he laid out their presents beneath the tree. He'd loved the endless family get-togethers and the warm feeling in the pit of his stomach at being totally happy.

Greg snorted, walking past the glittering Christmas tree someone had put up at the Met. God, he'd been so delusional.

His girls had taken their mother's side in the divorce. There was no telling what Karen had said to make them hate him but...Greg sometimes wondered if maybe _he'd_ done something to make them think that. Not been there enough for them or…something. It tormented him. Why else would they…?

He was supposed to see them more than he did but Greg didn't pressure the girls to visit him on their court-assigned days. Or at all, really.

They hated him.

He hated the reminder.

Now, Christmas- the entire season- was just another day, with Greg trying to forget all that and, to avoid going back to his empty, lonely flat, making an effort at work to keep himself busy.


	6. An Unexpected Visitor

**I'm terribly sorry. A lot of you told me the last chapter was a downer because I was mean to Greg so I hope this chapter makes up for some of the sadness. This story won't be all porn. I promise. It's just early days.  
**

**Also, thanks to Mattsloved1 (who writes some of the BEST Sherlock stories) for the word "brave."**

* * *

Entering his office to find Mycroft Holmes seated in front of his desk used to be a signal to Greg that his already bad day with going to get a hell of a lot worse.

Now, though, Greg experienced quite a different reaction.

He scrupulously closed his office door before allowing his face to split into a delighted grin. "Hey."

Mycroft raised an arrogant eyebrow. "Detective Inspector." He replied coolly, but his twitching lips gave him away, and Greg chuckling, crossed his office in a few strides, bending down and giving his boyfriend a kiss.

"What's this anyway?" He asked, pulling away. "Not that I'm not happy but…I thought you were busy." Greg hadn't seen Mycroft the past few days but he understood. They both had demanding jobs. It was hard.

Mycroft reached for Greg's free hand, squeezing it with his own. "I'm aware that you get a bit…depressed during the holidays and I thought you might like a little Christmas cheer."

Greg stared down at Mycroft, totally thrown, feeling his chest tighten and warm at the thought that Mycroft had taken time out of his extremely busy day…just for him.

He had to clear his throat before replying. "That's…um….that's- thanks. What'd you have in mind?"

"That depends on you, Gregory."

"Me?"

"Yes." Mycroft smiled, eyes glittering. "Do you feel brave?"


	7. An Unexpected Question

Greg couldn't keep the dopey grin from his face as he watched Mycroft carefully straighten his tie, using one of Greg's framed certificates as a makeshift mirror.

Greg's muscles ached pleasantly and there was a bruise forming across the top of his thighs from being forcefully bent over his desk. Not that he was complaining.

"You can give me _that_ kind of Christmas cheer anytime you want." He said, leering, as Mycroft slid his jacket back on.

"Don't be crass, Gregory." Mycroft scolded. Greg rolled his eyes, unable to take the reprimand seriously after what they'd just done.

He watched in silence as Mycroft smoothed his hair down from where Greg had ruffled it, making himself presentable again. Sadly. Greg liked Mycroft when he was disheveled.

"I'm afraid I must get back." Mycroft said, picking up his umbrella and giving Greg a penetrating look. He seemed satisfied with what he saw on Greg's face and he turned to go.

Greg stopped him.

"There's a, uh…Christmas party coming up. Here. At the office. I have to go and thought…I know you're busy but if you get everything sorted…." Greg shrugged. "I thought you might want to come?"

"In an official capacity?"

"No…I thought…as my…uh…date."

"Your date?" Mycroft repeated, looking stunned.

Greg grinned at Mycroft's surprise. "Yeah. Of course."

Mycroft's answering smile was brilliant.

* * *

**As if Greg would be embarrassed of you! Silly Mycroft!**


	8. Shopping For Sherlock

**Thanks to Alannalovingwriting (go check out her stories- another great writer!) for today's "b" word. :)**

* * *

John starts earlier and earlier every year. Not that it makes any difference because every year he comes up with the same thing he did last year which is a whole lot of _nothing_.

Have _you_ ever shopped for Sherlock Holmes?

No?

Then sit the fuck down and be quiet. The man is _impossible_ to buy for.

It's embarrassing, is what it is. John feels like an incapable sod. Definitely the worst boyfriend imaginable.

He tries, honestly he does but Sherlock's…different. In a good way. In a way John loves but…the normal "boyfriend" gifts don't work on him.

He's impossibly posh. John had staggered- literally _staggered_- upon seeing the price tag of one of Sherlock's shirts. It'd cost more than John made in _two weeks_ and Christmas may be a time for a bit of extravagance but…John's not rich enough to afford _that_.

Bloody hell.

Besides, buying shirts for Christmas? It's rather lame. Not to mention _boring_.

John would take boring at this point though, he realizes, staring at the display of mannequins in the window of the shop he's just come from. Still empty-handed. Still no closer to his goal.

He'll find something perfect this year if it kills him, though. He won't have another Christmas morning of watching Sherlock open his present in bemusement and again feeling like a bozo.


	9. Sherlock's Blessing

**Thanks go to Vikulee on Tumblr for today's "B" word and for giving me the longest list of "B" words I've ever been fortunate enough to see. Lol :) Thanks, darling! I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Despite what most people believe, and despite all evidence to the contrary, Sherlock doesn't actually hate Christmas.

He used to hate it. Christmas used to have all sorts of negative memories and connotations from his childhood which overrode any commercialized goodwill society attempted to foist on him. To Sherlock, Christmas had been just another day. A time of year when interesting murders occurred. Nothing special beyond that.

Then came John.

Their first Christmas together, Sherlock had watched as John went all out- decorating the flat in twinkle lights, tinsel, and wreaths. Putting mistletoe in every doorway. Whistling carols in the shower. Inviting people over for parties. Bullying Sherlock into attending parties. Wearing hideous, "festive" jumpers the whole month long.

Sherlock had attributed all the holiday nonsense to it being John's first Christmas since Afghanistan. Naturally, the ex-solider would want to celebrate with something "homey" to feel more at ease.

But John had done it the next year.

And the next year.

And he was doing it _again_ this year.

Sherlock was resigned.

But he didn't _hate_ it.

It made John happy, which in turn made Sherlock happy.

And John never seemed to tire of catching Sherlock in doorways, pointing up at the mistletoe, and then snogging him breathless.

So John could carry on with his inane Christmas traditions with Sherlock's blessing.


	10. Visiting Santa Claus

**Thanks for all the lovely support for this story, everyone! :) Glad you're enjoying it.**

* * *

Thomas had been waiting all year for this: the chance to meet Santa Claus. He'd been a good boy, too. Always listened to his mum. Cleaned his room. Made good grades.

He squirmed excitedly in the line of children at Harrods, clutching his dad's hand, jumping from foot to foot impatiently.

Craning his neck to see, Thomas caught sight of a boy his age walking away from Santa, clutching his mother's hand and sobbing.

Thomas bit his lip, concerned.

"Dad. Why's that kid crying?"

"Maybe Santa told him he's not been a good boy, son."

It took another ten minutes before they reached the front. Santa's elf, a short man dressed in a green tunic with jingle bell hat, gave Thomas a pleasant grin, offering him his hand.

"You're next, young man. Ready to meet Santa?"

"Yeah!" Thomas crowed, eagerly trotting forward.

"What's your name?"

"Thomas!"

"Ok. Santa, this is Thomas. _Be nice_." The elf sternly said to Santa Claus as he helped Thomas up onto the revered red lap.

"What do you want?" Santa snapped, without an ounce of cheer or laughter.

Thomas faltered. "I- I want-"

"There he is! _John_!"

Santa abruptly manhandled Thomas off his lap, setting him to the side, and, to Thomas's- and the rest of the assembled children's horror- "Santa" ripped off his snowy white beard.


	11. Damage Control

After an adventurous chase through Harrods, the kidnapping suspect was caught, the child in his possession returned to his mother unharmed, and Sherlock was giving his statement to Lestrade.

John- still dressed as an elf- was attempting to calm the hysterical children whose vision of Santa had been forever destroyed.

"Santa's busy this time of year so he has people who help him. Like his elves." John helplessly explained to a screaming four year old. The boy's father gave John a rude hand gesture over the boy's head before taking his son away for ice cream.

John's shoulders slumped. He'd deserved that. He'd known better than to let Sherlock play Santa. He glanced at the next little boy.

"That wasn't Santa?" the boy asked, tremulously, bottom lip quivering.

Looking into big, tearful brown eyes, John hated Sherlock.

"Erm. No, it wasn't. Santa- the _real_ Santa- he's still at the North Pole, getting ready for Christmas. But _that_ Santa- the tall man over there- he _works_ for the real Santa, tells him what kids like you want."

The little boy sniffed, wiped his eyes, gave John a hopeful, trusting look. "Really?"

John smiled. "Yeah. Really."

The boy's face broke into a delighted grin and John, feeling relieved that at least one child's faith had been restored, offered him a plastic-wrapped, sugared biscuit.

* * *

**Because Jawn.**


	12. A Christmas Scheme

**Thanks go to Sagaria for today's "B" word! **

**I hope everyone is having a great holiday season! :)**

* * *

Mycroft lay in the darkness of his bedroom, scheming.

Sherlock would say Mycroft was always scheming- which wasn't far from the truth- but this was a different sort of scheming. This was selfless scheming, scheming for someone he loved, someone he would do anything for-

Gregory snorted loudly in his sleep, snuffling his face into the pillows. Mycroft jumped at the unexpected noise, frowning at his slumbering boyfriend. Gregory didn't fully wake, though, and soon his even breaths turned into his regular, ear-splitting snores.

Mycroft, used to the ruckus, closed his eyes and went back to scheming.

He knew Gregory was depressed.

He knew the reason why.

He just didn't know how to _fix_ it.

Christmas for Gregory was a time for family but resolving familial matters wasn't Mycroft's strongest area. His little brother would attest to that but...he was more than willing to try his best for Gregory.

It'd be easy for Mycroft to invite Gregory's daughters to spend Christmas, or Christmas Eve, with them. Gregory hadn't claimed his court-ordered holiday visits with his girls in years. It was more than overdue.

Phone calls needed to be made. Dinner planned. Gifts bought. Secrets kept.

As Gregory slept, Mycroft planned it all out.

And if the girls refused?

Mycroft was already deciding what he would use as a suitable bribe.


	13. The Evils of Sweets

Watching his boyfriend slump over the toilet and be horribly sick left John feeling rather nauseous as well.

Only faintly, though. He was a doctor after all.

"A little longer and it'll be coming out the other end." He remarked lightly and it was a testament to how sick Sherlock truly was that there was neither glare nor groan to demonstrate his outrage at John's assessment.

"Here." John wiggled the bottle he held in Sherlock's line of sight. "Take this. Might help you feel better."

Sherlock gratefully guzzled the proffered pink liquid and John let him, shaking his head.

"You know what I'll never understand? Even children have impulse control."

Sherlock slumped again over the toilet and made no response.

"I understand taking a bite here and there- that's the fun of making gingerbread houses- but eating an entire package of marshmallows-"

Sherlock retched.

John, unmoved, was relentless. "Then sucking icing straight from the tube-"

"John." Sherlock's voice quavered. A pale, shaking hand waved feebly through the air. "Please."

"I'm going out in a few minutes to replace all the candy you ate. Mrs. Hudson still has to make the houses before this Friday."

Sherlock whimpered miserably. John, softened, ruffled his hair affectionately.

"I'm sorry you're sick, love, but maybe next time you'll know not to eat so much peppermint bark."

* * *

**Is peppermint bark solely an American thing? **

**Nevertheless, overeating on sweets is an _everyone_ thing when it comes to the holidays. I felt like Sherlock earlier today.**


	14. The Evils of Sweets, pt 2

**Thanks to Vikulee for today's "B" word. Warning: naughtiness ahead.**

* * *

Unlike his brother, Mycroft Holmes possesses extreme amounts of impulse control. In every facet of his life but especially when it comes to all things sweet. To sticky candies, scrumptious, sugary pastries, and warm, gooey chocolate cakes. Even on special occasions.

_Most especially_ on special occasions.

Because Mycroft knows that if one uses Christmas as an excuse to depart from one's diet and indulge, it won't stop there. Excuses will be made. Again and again as the occasions arise. And eventually one will find that they've eaten right through New Year's and subsequently feel disgusting on January 1st when their trousers are too tight round their middles.

Mycroft knows this from experience, which is why he takes preventative measures every year. No sweets of any kind are allowed in his flat. He invariably turns down the cookies, cakes, and candies that are brought into the office on an almost daily basis in December. He sticks to his diet with a rigid, iron determination.

Or he did.

Not anymore.

Because today, when he came home from a late night at the office, it was to find Gregory sprawled on his bed, covered in sweets.

Dots of icing decorated each limb.

Whipped crème and sugared candies covered his nipples.

Chocolate sauce coated his cock.

And a chocolate-covered cherry rested in his bellybutton.


	15. Shopping for John

Shopping during the holidays is hellish but the rigid parameters of the "holiday season" demand Sherlock, as John's significant other, buy him a present. Mrs. Hudson had fortunately reminded Sherlock of this earlier and so here he was, unhappily prowling a busy shopping center the week before Christmas, desperate to find a suitable gift.

Jumper?

Sherlock snorted as he passed a rack of them, all hideous, all of which John would probably love and which Sherlock would be forced to "experiment" on to get rid of.

No.

Scarf? Gloves?

Book?

John liked books. Boring, trite, frivolous things. Ridiculous action-adventures with exotic locations, good-triumphing-over-evil, and unbelievable plots full of holes.

No.

Dodging a harried-looking mother with three children in tow, Sherlock thought of purchasing a gun.

_Oh_. _That_ was an idea. John liked guns and used his own often. More importantly, _Sherlock_ liked John liking guns and had used John's gun on more than one occasion.

Suddenly, purchasing John a new gun sounded an excellent idea.

Sherlock knew "people" who could procure him a very nice gun John would like….but the chance of John getting angry and yelling were too high, offsetting the likelihood of his being chuffed with the gift.

Then Sherlock saw it: the perfect gift. Hanging in a shop just down the way, drawing his eye enticingly.

It was beautiful.

* * *

**It's not what you think it is.**

**Or is it? ;) We'll find out Christmas Day!**


	16. Party At Mrs Hudson's

**Thanks to Mapleleafcameo (a fantastic writer of Sherlock fanfiction- treat yourself and go read her stories, you won't be sorry) for today's "b" word! :)**

* * *

Mrs. Hudson's eggnog recipe was an old family secret. It'd won multiple awards and was rumored to have been served to important heads of state. She was always asked, year after year, what the secret was. What made her eggnog so much better than everyone else's? And with a wink and a smile, she'd refuse to tell.

John strongly suspected it was the copious amounts of spiced rum Mrs. Hudson added to it.

Actually, he didn't suspect. He _knew_ it was the copious amounts of spiced rum because damn if Mrs. Hudson's eggnog wasn't _the most_ alcoholic drink he'd ever ingested. He was only on his second glass and was already feeling warm and fuzzy, Mrs. Hudson's flat spinning around him in a rather _nice_ way.

Sherlock was on his third- or was it fourth?- glass of the stuff and was tipsily singing along to "Silver Bells" as Mrs. Hudson drunkenly conducted the song.

John thought maybe they'd all had enough. When Mrs. Hudson offered him another boozy glass though, he happily took it, promising himself it was his last.

An hour later- and five more glasses- he realized they'd _really_ had enough when he accidentally spun Sherlock too hard as they danced and Sherlock staggered into Mrs. Hudson's tree, his pained moans accompanied by the tinkling sound of breaking baubles.


	17. Feels Like Falling- Oof!

**Thanks to TaylorPotato (She is fabulous! Go read her stories- but not in public! You'll want to be alone, trust me) for today's "B" word and the prompt of drunkenness involving eggnog.**

* * *

John and Sherlock staggered up the stairs to their flat, tripping over the steps.

Their own feet.

Each other.

Air.

They were a giggling, gasping, drunken _mess_- clinging to each other just to keep from falling over.

Mrs. Hudson's eggnog could be considered a weapon, John thought woozily, grabbing their door for support as he tripped up the last two steps. Sherlock, attached to John's back like limpet, consequently barreled into him. John felt crushed.

"Look." Sherlock slurred, peering above them. "Looklooklook. John. Mistletoe."

John glanced up-

He never saw the mistletoe, though.

Sherlock clumsily maneuvered John around, pressing him back against the doorframe. The wood dug into his spine and John tried to protest- tried- but Sherlock's lips were already against his, silencing his complaints.

Their teeth clicked together. John banged his head against the doorframe trying to get away. Sherlock's lips chased his, artless in their application. Not that John gave a toss. It was still lovely.

They kissed messily, their coordination off. The room dipped and spun around them. Fists clenched into clothes to keep their balance and they fought the good fight to remain vertical as Sherlock pawed at John's crotch with ardent intent.

Sadly, it was not meant to be. A particularly enthusiastic grope-and-grind sent them both crashing to the floor when Sherlock lost his balance.


	18. Shopping for Mrs Hudson

"Don't know why you didn't just stay home." John grumbled as he and Sherlock left the fifth store in as many minutes, still empty-handed, still without a gift for their long-suffering, beloved landlady.

"You asked me to come."

"Yeah, I did. Didn't know you were going to be a twat, though."

Sherlock didn't dignify that with an answer. He reluctantly followed John into yet _another_ store and impatiently fidgeted while the shorter man browsed.

"Buy her oven mitts." He suggested as they walked down that particular aisle.

John spared Sherlock an incredulous look. "That's a crap gift."

"Why? Mrs. Hudson likes baking."

"Yeah, but…oven mitts?"

Sherlock glanced around at the merchandise. "An apron? _With_ oven mitts?"

"That's…actually good." John smiled at him, pleased with the idea, and Sherlock's heart warmed.

In the end, they bought Mrs. Hudson a frilly apron with brightly colored pastries splashed on it, along with matching oven mitts.

Looking back, John wished they'd gone back to the flat at that point.

Instead, Sherlock managed to convince him to sneak into a dressing room for a quick and daring shag. And it was going well- fucking amazing, actually- until the manager noticed two pairs of feet where they should've been only one.

John thought he'd never stop blushing. Sherlock maintained it'd still been worth it, even with the subsequent lifetime ban.


	19. The Scotland Yard Annual Christmas Party

**Thanks go to SavedBySwift for today's "B" word!**

* * *

The annual Christmas Party at Scotland Yard was predictable.

There was the traditional bad venue, bad music, and bad food. There was even worse company. Because really, one worked with the majority of people attending the party day in and day out, on weekends, holidays, and overtime. The _last_ thing most people at the Yard wanted to do was spend even _more_ time awkwardly socializing with their coworkers and pretending to care about what they had to say.

Which was why someone always spiked the punchbowl.

Thankfully.

No one ever knew who did it. It'd have been foolish in the extreme to actually _admit_ to spiking the punchbowl – a highly illegal activity in and of itself- in a roomful of law enforcement officers. Unsurprisingly, no one was ever that idiotic.

And everyone else was so fucking grateful to be sloshed they never questioned it too closely.

The addition of alcohol, besides easing the discomfort of the evening, always led to the sorts of drunken shenanigans one hoped those in positions of power were above.

There was naughty dancing on the dance floor between people who hadn't spoken to each other all year. There were at least five different couples licitly shagging in offices and loos, which sometimes was regretted come morning, while others were the start of office romances blossoming.

* * *

**Why is everyone getting drunk in this fic? Does that say something bad about how I celebrate Christmas?**

** I'll contemplate that as soon as I finish this bottle of wine.**


	20. The Scotland Yard Christmas Party, pt 2

**Thanks to Jayda Morgana (another GREAT writer- her stories always make me smile) for today's "B" word! **

**Sorry for the late update!**

* * *

"You here by yourself?"

The woman currently _fawning_ all over Greg Lestrade, Tia-from-Forensics, had had too much to drink. Her eyes were glassy, her breath reeked of alcohol, and she was currently sporting the biggest, dopiest grin on her face.

The dead give-away, though, was the fact that she'd pinched Greg's arse.

"What?" Greg asked, the spot on his bum she'd pinched still smarting. To Greg's credit, he brushed her away as politely as he could. Tia was tenacious, though, and came right back, invading his personal space, trying to wink sexily.

"You here by yourself, handsome?"

It'd been like this all evening.

Well, not like _this_. This was the first time Greg had got his arse pinched by a co-worker, but everyone was assuming he was alone. Everyone knew about his divorce and it wasn't that he and Mycroft had been hiding the fact they were dating, but it seemed not everyone had got the memo Greg had "turned gay" and was now dating "some posh bloke in a suit."

"No, I'm here with-"

"Me." Mycroft smoothly cut in and Greg watched as Mycroft easily dealt with the smashed woman, politely letting her know Greg was taken.

And as they walked away from her, Greg jumped when he felt a handsy grope of his bum, courtesy of his own be-suited bombshell.


	21. Jingle Bells

**Thanks go to Djburnham for today's "B" word.**

* * *

"Wanna go back to my place and light my Yule log?"

John was drunk.

_Unbelievably_ drunk.

"What do you say we make this a not-so-silent night?"

And when John got drunk, he got randy. Very, very randy.

"That's not a- a candy cane in my pocket. I'm just haaaaappy to see you."

Sherlock, the lucky recipient of these horrendous pick-up lines, rolled his eyes and firmly pushed John away from his perusal of Sherlock's neck with his tongue. "That's nice, John."

"You're the reason Santa even _has_ a naughty list." John growled, leaning forward again and nipping at Sherlock's neck, his hands creeping indecently high on Sherlock's thighs.

Sherlock grabbed John's hands, stopped their wicked progression toward his groin, and gave John a stern look.

"You're drunk."

"You're gorgeous."

John ground his erection against Sherlock's hip. "You interested in seeing the North Pole?"

"No. John, I'm calling a cab and we're going home-"

"Sherrrrrlock." John ground his cock more insistently against Sherlock and moaned, his fingers digging into Sherlock's hip to steady himself. "If you jingle my bells, I _promise_ you a white Christmas."

Sherlock glanced at the door of the office they'd ducked into. It was locked. The shades drawn. They were alone.

And so he pushed an unsteady John into a chair, sank to his knees, and jingled John's bells.

* * *

**I found these gem pick-up lines from joke sites. **

**I regret nothing ;)  
**


	22. A Christmas Day Dinner

Merrily humming Christmas carols, John spun around in the kitchen, hands full of freshly peeled potatoes- only to bump into a solid wall of six-foot plus consulting detective.

"Sherlock-!"

The potatoes went flying, thumping dully as they bounced onto the floor and skidded everywhere- under the table and to every corner of the room.

"What d'you think you're doing?" John asked, annoyed, as he retrieved the potatoes and threw them in the bin.

"Nothing." Sherlock dodged around him, nicked the packet of chocolate biscuits, and retreated to the sitting room.

"Don't spoil your appetite!" John called after him. "And thanks for offering to help." He muttered, selecting more potatoes, peeling them in record time and setting them to boil before he pulled the turkey out of the oven and basted it. It looked wonderful. John breathed a sigh of relief.

He'd invited Mrs. Hudson upstairs for Christmas dinner with he and Sherlock before they opened presents and he wanted everything to be perfect.

So far, so good.

He ran into a problem when he found congealed blood in the butter tub, but a quick rummage found the correct container.

Then Sherlock (for some reason) added sugar to the green beans when John wasn't looking.

The rolls came out rather burned.

But when it was time for dinner, John victoriously revealed a deliciously golden holiday bird.

* * *

**Thanks go to Tiskate who asked for "butter," "basting", and "holiday bird" as well as Sherlock getting in John's way while he was cooking. Hope you enjoyed it!**

**Also, we'll be seeing our boys open Christmas presents tomorrow (Tuesday, Christmas Eve) so be prepared! :D**


	23. Opening Presents

**Here's the chapter a lot of you have been waiting for: Sherlock's present to John. :) Hope it doesn't disappoint.**

**Also, please note: Tomorrow (Christmas Day) there will be 2 updates.**

**Thanks to Jayda Morgana for today's "B" word.**

* * *

Discarded wrapping paper littered the sitting room floor of 221B and Mrs. Hudson, already proudly wearing her new apron from her darling boys, was handing out the last few presents.

"To John from Sherlock." She handed the prettily wrapped box to John, winking cheekily.

After a quick glance at Sherlock, who looked nervous, John tore off the wrapping and opened the lid…

He stared at the mélange of lace and silk, of frilly fabrics and shiny satins, which met his eyes. His mind stalled, trying to work out what Sherlock had got him-

_Good God._

Eyes wide, John hastily crammed the lid back on the box with shaking hands and glanced up, hoping Mrs. Hudson hadn't seen-

"What is it? What did Sherlock get you?"

Thank God. She hadn't seen.

Mrs. Hudson was beaming, obviously expecting something sweet and lovely. Something normal boyfriends bought each other.

Not...not what was in the box.

"Uhm…" John's voice squeaked. He had to clear it- twice- before he could respond. "Scarf. Yeah. Nice…_scarf_. Thanks, Sherlock."

And Sherlock, thankfully, kept his mouth shut.

John waited until Mrs. Hudson had gone back downstairs before unleashing his fury, rounding on Sherlock, and angrily hissing:

"Do you want to tell me why the _hell_ you got me a box full of knickers? Some of which has the arse _bedazzled_?"


	24. Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

**Thanks to TheMadKatter13 who gave me the "B" word for today- in what I think was an effort to trip me up. :P I still managed to use it!**

* * *

Greg wasn't surprised Mycroft had their Christmas meal catered. He couldn't imagine his posh boyfriend actually cooking anything in his expensively fitted-up kitchen. And it was a nice change to have a good meal at Christmas and not something frozen and warmed-up in his cramped flat.

He _was_ surprised when Mycroft told him who'd be joining them for dinner.

"The girls?" Greg felt panicked. "When?"

"They should arrive in ten minutes-"

"What? _Why_? Why didn't you tell me? When did you ask them? Why didn't you- _Jesus_." Greg spun away from Mycroft, agitatedly running his fingers through his hair.

"I thought you'd have an adverse reaction to the idea. Obviously, I was mistaken."

Ten minutes wasn't much time to compose himself, but Greg tried his best.

And before he knew it, there they were: Lily, the eldest, the very image of her mother, and Olivia, no longer the baby at _nearly_ ten.

The nearly was _vastly_ important.

Greg didn't know what to do, afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing. He didn't even know if he should hug them or not. If they even wanted him to.

But he tried.

Lily was still the un-meltable ice queen, but Olivia snuggled right up against his stomach, took his hand, and talked to him all the way to table about her recently developed allergy to bananas.

* * *

**Yes, an allergy to bananas is a thing called Anaphylaxis. It's very rare. **


	25. Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?, pt2

"Were you the other woman?"

Mycroft glanced to where Lily stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed defensively over her chest, chin stick mulishly out. It was the first words he'd heard from her all evening.

"I wasn't."

A disbelieving snort. "Yeah, right. He was shagging you, wasn't he? The whole time."

"I assure you he wasn't."

Lily shook her head, coming further into the kitchen. "Well, I know he had to be shagging someone."

"What makes you think so?"

"He was never there. Always gone. Always 'busy.' Doesn't take a genius to figure out."

"Your father has a very important job. Lives depend on him-"

"_I_ depended on him! And he was never there. Everyone else was more important!" Lily burst out, genuine emotion showing through her tough façade before she shook it off, retreating into her shell with an eye roll. "Whatever. It doesn't matter."

"No. It _doesn't_ matter."

Whatever she'd been expecting Mycroft to say, it hadn't been that.

"Well, fuck y-"

"That's in the past." Mycroft cut in, gently. "Whatever mistakes your father did or did not make have already been done. Resenting him for them can't fix it."

"I don't want to fix it!"

"Possibly not." Mycroft agreed. "But you might be surprised at the outcome if you would let go of the past and just bend."


	26. Black Lace On Christmas Night

**Hope everyone had a great Christmas! :D**

**Thanks to Somanyhands for today's "B" word!**

* * *

John's bought lingerie for his girlfriends in the past.

On more than one occasion, he's swaggered into a shop, browsed the array of skimpy, see-through "outfits," and picked the one he liked best, the one he just _had_ to see his girlfriend prancing around in before he peeled her out of it.

He never thought of wearing the lingerie himself.

He never thought he'd ever be given lingerie as a gift from his boyfriend.

That's a unique position even Three Continents Watson couldn't have foreseen.

The idea of Sherlock walking into a lingerie shop….picking out what he thought John would look best in...holding the knickers in his large hands and imagining John in them…getting slightly aroused right there in the shop…well, John couldn't have believed such a thing unless Sherlock had told him himself.

And Sherlock _did_ tell John- once John stopped yelling and calmed down.

Even then, John didn't understand the appeal. Didn't understand why Sherlock's eyes glazed when he looked at the box, why Sherlock swallowed thickly when John reluctantly agreed to wear a pair.

John decided, as he pulled on black lace knickers which left _nothing_ to the imagination, that he wasn't going to be self-conscious about this. Sherlock wanted him in knickers. So he was going back out there shoulders squared, with his sexiest strut, and all the fucking bravado.


	27. Black Lace On Christmas Night, pt2

**Shame, for me, is a distant memory.**

**Thanks to Snogandagrob for today's "B" word!**

* * *

Any lingering embarrassment over wearing knickers could go to hell.

Such was John's thinking when he sauntered into his and Sherlock's bedroom, because Sherlock?

Looked fucking _dazed_.

His eyes hungrily roved over John's body, lingering at his lace-covered groin and yup, John's cock _definitely_ took interest in _that_ look. Sherlock's hands flexed at his sides and he took a deep, shuddering breath that was audible across the room, lips parting provocatively.

Worry that he looked ridiculous in the black lace, that Sherlock would burst out laughing and tell John this had all been a mistake (or worse, an experiment) vanished. John couldn't help but smirk and preen _just the slightest_ under that heated stare.

Anytime Sherlock gave him his full, somewhat-terrifying attention was great. But this…this was a fucking _rush_.

John watched as Sherlock's fingers traced the edges of the lace, tickling his skin, before cupping John's very-much-interested cock, his palm shockingly warm through the lace.

They both inhaled sharply. Sherlock's touch grew more insistent-

John's hand shot out and grabbed Sherlock's wrist. "It scratches." He explained. It was an irritant, a definite arousal-killer.

"Should've worn the silk."

John could imagine- for the first time wondering how much better silk would feel against his cock instead of-

"Jesus-!" He shouted as Sherlock sank to his knees and set about ravaging John like a beast.


	28. A Heartfelt Thank You

**Thanks go to GivenThePuzzleIWillDance (a very, very talented young writer- go check her out!) for today's "B" word :)**

* * *

"Thank you."

Mycroft paused in the act of undressing and turned, eyebrows raised at the mumbled words. Gregory stood in their bedroom door and Mycroft wondered if hovering in doorways was a Lestrade family characteristic.

"Thanks." Greg repeated, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched. "For the dinner. For the…for the girls. Tonight was great." He smiled, shrugged. "So…thank you."

Mycroft smiled back. "It was my pleasure, Gregory." _I love you. I wanted to see you happy._

"Surprised they wanted to spend Christmas with their old man. I don't know how you got them to agree to come. Didn't kidnap'em did you?"

"It was easy." Mycroft confessed, striding to his boyfriend, interlacing their fingers together. "They very much wanted to see their father." He hesitated. "They missed you."

Greg snorted self-deprecatingly. "Doubt that."

"Don't." Mycroft said. "They love you, Gregory. You're their father. There may be bitterness and bad feelings between you all but…they still love you. I think tonight was proof of that."

Greg snorted again, but fondly this time, remembering the way Olivia had cuddled against him on the sofa and talked incessantly about school, Doctor Who, and the kitten Karen had promised her.

And Olivia had actually hugged him- of her own free will- before leaving.

It gave him hope that maybe he could reach out to his girls without getting burnt.


	29. An Open Fire

**Thanks to Theclarinetchica for today's "B" word!**

**_AN_: There will be 2 chapters tomorrow (New Year's Eve) which will complete this story. I want to thank everyone who prompted me with a "B"word. I wasn't able to get all of them in this fic. I think this story is connected to the Arguing With Chip and Pin Machines 'verse of mine so I WILL be using the prompted words in my fic Further Arguments With Chip and Pin Machines in the new year. I am sorry I wasn't able to fit them all in here. Thanks!**

* * *

John had said he could. He really had.

He had _literally_ looked Sherlock in the eye, right there in the middle of the Christmas tree shop, longsuffering grimace in place on those thin, wonderfully kissable lips, and _told_ Sherlock that he could do whatever he wanted to their Christmas tree _once Christmas was over._

And John always keeps his word, whether he's telling someone he'll take their shift at the surgery, threatening to shoot if the suspect doesn't let go of his boyfriend, or growling in Sherlock's ear that he'll be sodomizing him as soon as the case they're on is over. John Watson keeps his word.

Which was why Sherlock _took_ John at his word and, as soon as John was gone to take that extra shift at the surgery, brought out his safety goggles, test tubes, and various chemicals and knelt beside their still-elaborately-decorated Christmas tree, eager and experimentally-minded.

Ten minutes later, the new had worn off and Sherlock had come to the realization that there weren't that many truly excellent or note-worthy experiments to be done on a six-foot pine.

The idea was frustrating.

Provoking.

Sherlock was slightly mollified after he set the entire thing on fire, not bothering to take the ornaments off first, (really they were ghastly things), smiling in satisfaction at the crackling blaze.


	30. A Kiss At Midnight

**Thanks to SalconeDestrivina for today's "B" word! **

**There will be one more chapter after this one, later today. :)**

* * *

"I thought I told you, Gregory." Mycroft said, frowning at his boyfriend across his shadowy office. "I have to work tonight."

"Yeah, I know." Greg shrugged, glancing around the office, at the darkened sky outside. "Don't mind if I stay for a while, do you? I won't bother you or nothing."

Mycroft gave Greg a stern look. "I do have to _work_, Gregory. That isn't code for wanting to shag in my office or-"

"I know!" Greg said, affronted. "It's just…it's New Year's Eve. I wanted to see you. I'll leave if it bothers you."

"No, your presence is fine. Please, no distractions, though."

"Promise." Greg grinned happily and Mycroft, giving him another stern, warning look, returned to his paperwork.

Greg milled around Mycroft's office, looking at the paintings on the wall. Reading the titles of the books on his shelves. Aimlessly pacing. Finally, he got bored and played a (silent) game on his mobile, slouched in the seat across from Mycroft, rumpling his suit.

Mycroft ruffled his papers and ignored him.

Distant bangs from outside signaled the arrival of midnight and it was at this point that Greg stood up, walked around Mycroft's desk, lifted his boyfriend's aristocratic chin, and gave him a chaste, loving kiss.

"Happy New Year's." Greg murmured.

"Happy New Year's to you, Gregory." Mycroft replied, looking bemused.


	31. Never Bored

**Well, this is it. This is the end. Endings always make me sad so I thought it fitting to write a 442B.**

**I want to sincerely thank each and every one of you for the love and support, the favorites and follows, the pm's and the reviews that were given to this story. It meant so much to me, and I hope that I was able to lend a little brightness to your holiday season, if only for a few minutes a day. Thank you!**

**Thanks also to 1butterfly_grl1 for today's last and final "B" word.**

* * *

"Glad we didn't go out."

"Mm."

"The crowds. The noise. Thieves."

"Drunkards."

John snorted, running his fingers through Sherlock's hair as they reclined on the sofa, watching coverage of the New Year's Eve festivities on the telly. "I'm glad we stayed in."

"You've already said that." Sherlock reminded him, his voice lazy and deep with exhaustion. Setting fire to and then scrambling to put out Christmas trees was hard work.

"Guess I did." John sighed, unconcerned, watching as the camera panned over a large mob of people, all laughing and shouting, wearing ridiculous paper hats and using noisemakers.

Last year, he and Sherlock had been down there with everyone else, pressed and squeezed against humanity as they'd waited for midnight. This year, they'd decided to stay at the flat. Have a quiet night in. John felt sorry for the poor bastards down in the crowd freezing their arses off.

Not that it was very warm in the flat. All the windows were open to dispel the lingering smell of burnt pine. It'd been a shock to come home after work and find smoke pouring from the windows of the flat, their Christmas tree burnt to a blackened crisp, and Sherlock smiling at John with wide-eyed innocence. John hadn't been fooled. Still, he'd been remarkably calm about the whole thing- chalking it up to a miscommunication (however far-fetched) and felt amazingly lucky that Sherlock hadn't burnt down the whole flat…until he'd found out all the ornaments had been destroyed.

Even _thinking_ about it made John feel like shouting again.

Sherlock, sensing John's rising anger, pressed a sweet kiss to John's cheek. "I love you."

John snorted. "Better be glad I love you back, you deranged tosser."

Sherlock, apparently _very_ glad his homicidal doctor loved him, squirmed closer on the sofa, pressing himself against John. They were already tightly snugged against each other on the sofa, buried in layers of down against the freezing air streaming in at the windows. It was warm. Cozy. Sherlock a pleasant weight atop John's body.

As the newscaster drowned on, John's eyelids drooped. He snorted, jerked his head up. Tried to stay awake…

Tried….to stay….

When John woke, it was to the sound of the crowd loudly chanting down the time-

"seven…six…five…"

"Sherlock…they're counting down." John mumbled sleepily, intent on getting his midnight kiss-

Sherlock's only answer was a grating snore and to burrow deeper into John's chest. John smiled and kissed the top of Sherlock's curly head. As he settled down to sleep too, he was happy with the thought that even if they stayed at the flat and fell asleep before midnight, with Sherlock…he was never bored.


End file.
